Too Many Naps
by Joon Pearl
Summary: Doritos, Mountain Dew, and writer's block. Well, until Shooter shows up.
1. Too Many Naps

SECRET WINDOW Disclaimer: Blah, Blah, Blah. I didn't steal it. I don't think...hmm.... Archive: Yes. If you want to. Wow. Very flattered. Just tell me where. Rating: R. Since Mort likes to swear (who doesn't with a psycho tormenting you) Summary: (short version) Doritos, Mountain Dew, and writer's block. Well, until Shooter shows up. (long version) Um..This is right from where Mort first meets Shooter. There are some differences, but basically the same. Just a nice read (I hope) if you liked the movie. Which I did. Loved, more like it. Please review me too. I'd like that. Like to know if I'm writing okay or just shit. Thanks. Um, anything else...don't think so, except to say enjoy. Now I will return to the couch and curl up with some Doritos and soda. ----- -------------------------------------------  
  
Too Many Naps  
  
Mort's eyes were half slits before he realized that his body was falling off the chair. In an attempt to regain his balance, Mort jerked upright, but it was no use. He collided on the floor with the weight of the chair pressing against him.  
  
"Shit." he said aloud, and slid from beneath it. He stood and shook himself off, bits of crumbs and cigarette ash drifted to his feet. Mort squinted at his computer screen. It was blank.  
  
How long was I like that? He tried to remember but found that his leg was distracting him. It had no feeling. He must have dosed on a slant, because his whole left leg was numb. He stiffly maneuvered his way around the fallen chair and down the stair case.  
  
"Food. Food, definitely." said Mort reaching the bottom. He lit the tip of a new cigarette and discarded the crushed pack on a nearby surface. A twinge of guilt stabbed his thoughts as he padded through the kitchen, considering for a moment before dismissing it.  
  
You said you'd stop smoking. A voice echoed. Mort felt a flare of irritation rise from somewhere, but it subsided as he arrived at the fridge.  
  
"When did I say that?" He asked the empty house, but no one answered. He didn't expect anyone to. But the voice in his head did, it always did, which he knew would be inevitable.  
  
You know when.  
  
Mort swung the door open and stood there, eyes moving over the contents thoughtfully. Mountain Dew lined the shelves, along with several containers filled with unintelligible leftovers. He thought he recognized something that looked vaguely like tuna but decided against it. Too green.  
  
Mort grabbed a can of soda and pulled out a few other things, then closed the door with his foot. At the table, he began to finish a turkey sandwich he'd started on earlier.  
  
"Chico." Mort called, wondering where he was suddenly. His only companion in this lonely house. He was breed of dog Mort couldn't quiet place, but favored lab with a hint of German Shepard as apposed to mixed colored mutt. He wasn't upstairs curled onto that leather recliner he loved so much; he knew that because he hadn't seen him. However Chico was prone to do whatever pleased him, and that usually meant roaming the cabin or taking a short trot around the lake. Although he usually he came running when he smelled food, especially turkey. Mort eyed the cigarette suspiciously and leaned forward enough to glimpse the bottom of the stair well.  
  
He relaxed slightly, having not been too worried, when he saw a quick flash of tail, wagging happily between the living room table and the couch.  
  
"Chico. Food. Come here." He called, and handed a slice of messy sandwich to him as he scampered up obediently.  
  
"Must be the smoke. Can't find the scent huh?" He patted the dog's head and batted absently at the smoke clouded four inches from his face. He turned back to his thoughts; the dog ate hungrily and sat at his feet, looking blindly up at him.  
  
"I wanna take a nap. I think I'll go do that." He said after a while of staring out the window. It was truly a nice day. The sun was reflecting off the lake in waves, as it rippled along with the soft breeze; the trees scarcely moved, indicating to Mort that it wasn't exactly too cold for a walk. But a nap sounded infinitely better. You do that so often now.  
  
What else is there to do? Mort caught sight of what he thought was a flicker of disappointment raise Chico's eyelids and regarded him with a small gurgled scoff.  
  
"What? Alright, alright," Mort said lying down next to Chico. "I'll go write some crap for a couple of hours, then take a nap. Okay?" Chico smiled, sneezed into Mort's old striped robe, and ambled off to another part of the house.  
  
At his computer, Mort felt nothing. He was blank, and so was the screen. Ever since Amy he hadn't been able to write a single good line. And it was frustrating. Ideas came but nothing flowed through his fingers like they'd done before. He remembered Everybody Drops the Dime and smiled. He liked those, particularly Secret Window, although he hadn't known exactly where it had come from.  
  
From you Mort. Not from the man sitting in a torn old robe your ex used to wear.  
  
He tried to shatter that thought. He liked the robe too. It was relaxing, comfy. Not at all like anything he would find in his suitcase. Why not wear it? It was the only thing left of Amy's. Otherwise, all of his belongings were at their house.  
  
Her house, Mort corrected, realizing he couldn't technically call it theirs, because it wasn't, theirs, any longer. The memory stung him and he tried to forget it. Outside, a motorboat roared across the quiet lake, fracturing the water's image into tiny fragments.  
  
"Crap, shit, shit, shit." Mort sighed, and looked around at his cabin for nothing in particular. After moving in, he'd found that loneliness, other than Chico's company was something of a burden. He knew he'd have to start writing again, try and get past, her. And what more him. Ted. Fucking Ted. He'd found them in that bed at the motel. It was snowing. Cold weather had bitten at his heels as he walked the path up to the room. Finding relief and at the same time anger and sadness at proving his suspicions.  
  
Since then he'd only written small beginnings, short conversations, and described little or no settings. He had nowhere to go. He had a feeling the divorce was the hitch in his writing. But he couldn't get past it, no matter how hard he tried. Why try anyway? It happened. She left you. Its over, and you have nothing.  
  
That's not true. You have this cabin.  
  
I didn't think I'd been needing it for this, Mort thought to himself, grimacing at the memory.  
  
Don't go back. I told you not to go back.  
  
"I couldn't just leave." Mort said angrily. The relentless voice was getting louder every day now, so much so that Mort couldn't deny its existence any longer. All he could do now was give in, talk to it, and hope it would wear of him and leave. That was one of the bonuses about living in a cabin on a lake though, Mort thought as he stretched his feet beneath the desk.  
  
Nobody there to say that you were crazy for talking to yourself. 


	2. The Dark Brimmed Hat

The Dark Brimmed Hat  
  
Disclaimer: Bleh, Blah, Bloo. Rating: Still R. Especially now that Shooter's here. Archive: You can. If you want. Thank you. Blush. Tell me where please. Summary: Doritos, Mountain Dew, and writer's block. Well, until Shooter shows up. Anyway, here's the second chapter. So glad you're interested. Please review, is this good? or shit. I would like to know. K. Back to the couch.  
  
The Dark Brimmed Hat  
  
Mort let his head droop, believing for an instant that maybe if his head was lowered, ideas would pour from his mind onto the keys. Parts of his blonde hair hung down over his forehead, his hands resting in his lap, waiting, expectantly.  
  
Bang. Bang. Bang.  
  
Mort's head shot up, causing several loose strands of his hair to fall back onto the sides of his cheeks. With a quizzical look on his face, he stood and glanced over the side of the small balcony he had between his living room and the stairs. There was a figure looming between the curtain shrouded front door window.  
  
"Company." He said, almost reluctantly, and hurried himself downstairs to see who it was.  
  
When he opened the door, light filtered in through the crack, illuminating parts of the floorboards and Mort's tattered robe. The rush of sunshine sent chills up his spine. He had to get out more. The sun was too bright at first, making it difficult to pick out the stranger from the front stoop.  
  
As the light began to soften, a frail breeze floated in and around Mort's shuddering body. Blinking a few times, Mort met eyes with a strange man dressed slightly casual on his front porch, eyes forward, staring expectantly at him.  
  
His body was slender, sturdy, and fit easily into the frame of the door, that Mort could easily tell. His clothes were tight but loosely fitted, and hung on him like they'd been designed to fit the exact curve of his torso. He wore a blue ruffled shirt that was swallowed by a less than clean overcoat. His pants were dark brown, or least, they were. Mort guessed he'd been trudging up around the foothills, hiking or something; He didn't look like a hiker though, but something about him felt 'country' at first glance. The rims of his jeans rode over a pair of shabby work boots. The only thing Mort felt unease by, other than his presence, was his hat.  
  
The stranger fashioned a black hat, which ran a sharp circle around his head, topped with a bowl shaped crown. It seemed to stare at him in his ragged old robe. Mort straightened a little, realizing that neither had spoke since he'd opened the door.  
  
"You stole my story." The stranger said finally, very calm and collected like, considered what he'd just said.  
  
Mort detected a southern accent, or somewhere around those parts. That kind of drawl that makes a syrup ripple on the mind as its words are being soaked in. Mort blinked in surprise, shifted his weight at the stranger's words, and stared stupidly at him, speechless. What?  
  
"What?" he repeated, dumb-struck.  
  
"You stole my story." he said again, with the same slow and easy tone of voice. Mort quickly found himself clenching the door handle. Crazy folks tribe. He'd heard of them. People from that tribe who followed writers around for one insane reason or another. His surroundings were pretty secluded. Hell, the only sheriff in town was at least ten miles away, and here was he, face to face with a member of the crazy folks tribe.  
  
Mort, you're getting ahead of yourself--  
  
"I know you did it." he said, breaking Mort's train of thought. "You're the one. Now I com' to collect what's owed me."  
  
"Uh, which is?" Mort asked, genuinely curious.  
  
"Credit." the man in the dark brimmed hat said flatly, and waited. His eyes were so glossy and cold, that Mort found himself trembling under its scrutiny. He readjusted his glasses on his face and stared directly at him, speaking hastily against his fear.  
  
"Look, Mr. uh, whatever you're name is, I don't know you,"  
  
"That don' matter Mr. Rainey I know you. You stole my story." the stranger interrupted with his stony glare.  
  
"You can contact my literary agent, to resolve any grievances, you feel you may have," this time the stranger didn't interrupt with words, but simply stretched out his hand, revealing a manuscript in his grasp. Mort jumped back slightly in surprise.  
  
"I don't read those." Mort said.  
  
"You read this one already. You stole it." the tall and somber man replied. He spoke in such a way that was quiet and serene. Like someone complimenting the sky, or admiring a batch of flowers. Not likely a tone to be taken while accusing someone of plagiarism.  
  
The stranger held out his hand for Mort to take it, but Mort just took a few steps back. No way am I letting anything of his into this house. Absolutely not.  
  
"I'm not taking that." He said glancing over it. Under the shaded line crossing his face from beneath the brim of his hat, the stranger's face seemed to redden, becoming a soft shade of red.  
  
"You'll take this, one way or the other." the husky southern stranger said forcefully, pushing Mort involuntarily further into his house.  
  
"As far as I'm concerned, this matter is closed." he said quickly and shut the door before the man could make a rebuttal.  
  
Mort waited, fear clutched in his gut, small sweat beads dotting his forehead. He heard a car engine start, and glanced through his large kitchen windows, seeing for the first time the stranger's Junker. It looked like a Dodge, but it was too caked with mud and rusted with age to make out the model. The license plate, though faded and slightly distorted through Mort's glasses, read:  
  
MISSISSIPPI  
  
In thick blue letters. The stranger tossed his hat aside into the passenger's seat and then sunk behind the wheel, apparently disinterested in the hunched figure watching him through tinted windows.  
  
After the car had gone, Mort turned around, forgetting for a moment about the thud he'd heard moments before; He was just happy to see the man leave; He'd heard about things like this happening before in newspapers and tabloids. They usually played out like this: (though Mort couldn't be sure whether he was just exaggerating)  
  
MANIAC TERRORIZES LOCAL MAN OVER STOLEN APPLES  
  
Mort saw a flash of an image copied onto some nameless paper:  
  
TASHMORE LAKE'S RESIDENTIAL WRITER SPOOKED BY BLACK BRIMMED STRANGER  
  
Then, for some reason he did not care to get into, added the words:  
  
EX-WIFE AMY NOT CONCERNED. SOON TO WED TED AND MOVE INTO BLOCKED WRITER'S HOME  
  
Chico whimpered at him, shattering the headlines and leaving him standing there, wondering why he had heard a thud. He crossed the kitchen cautiously, into the living room and to a window overlooking the porch.  
  
"Cracker Bastard." Mort muttered, then at the memory of the stranger picking up and leaving in that old junk trap, found something a miss. It was then that he remembered the stranger had not being carrying the manuscript.  
  
Heedful of the stranger's words:  
  
You'll take this, one way or the other  
  
He glanced outside, but couldn't see past the unrecognizable glare radiating off the windowpanes. He scoffed; his scoffs were more of a gurgling sound made at the back of the throat. He did this a lot he decided, but regarded even further, that he wasn't exactly bothered by how many times he found himself doing it. He probably did it without even realizing, just like the screaming.  
  
He screamed sometimes after naps. He'd be dreaming of Amy, and next moment he was falling off the couch into a muffled shout. He scoffed again, scratching at bits of his disheveled blonde hair, then padded to the front door.  
  
The engine of the old beater car had dissipated into the soft noisy afternoon, and Mort inched onto the stoop, at first not seeing it. But as his eyes traveled to three feet in front of his own, he found what the disturbed stranger had left him.  
  
It was the manuscript. Lying securely under a heavy rock, squarely on his front porch.  
  
"I'm not taking that." Mort repeated, feeling a spike of anger, but thought better of it. His cleaning lady would be there any time now (just now remembering she was coming to clean up his sloppy habits) These included trash wedged between the cushion seats, crumpled Doritos bags askew about the kitchen and living room floor, as well as a couple hidden upstairs near his laptop. General clutter everywhere Mort turned until Mrs. Gavin appeared to swipe it away. She would surly notice, and wonder as to what it was and why it was lying there unattended.  
  
"I didn't steal it." he said tossing the rock aside. He carried the load of typed paper into the kitchen and apply shoved it into the garbage bin, satisfied it would stay there, buried underneath a pile of orange peals and spilt mountain dew. He washed his hands of the dirty rock and god knows what from the script, shook them out into the air irrationally, and moved his way back into the living room.  
  
He muttered something and let his body go slack into the couch, where, after a few hours of writing shit and meeting cracker bastard hicks, found that comfort came soothingly fast.  
  
"I don't think." he said, slowly letting his thoughts run together, and his eyelids droop. 


End file.
